


My Master, The Rebel Prince

by lanyon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loras Tyrell comes to squire for Renly Baratheon. In time, their relationship evolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knighthoods and Tourneys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eudaimon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/gifts).



He is the King’s brother but that does not make him a prince. He is a lord and the Lord of Storm’s End, at that. He has been since he was eight or nine or maybe ten. He can’t quite remember. It is difficult to remember the beginning of a truth. His most vivid memory of the time is of Stannis glowering and his bald head shining in the light of the torches. He looked like a particularly angry egg.

To hold Dragonstone is a great privilege, Robert told Stannis, and he still tells Stannis. It was the seat of Targaryen heirs. Stannis, ever the logician, reminds Robert that they are Baratheons, not Targaryens, and that Storm’s End is their seat.

Now Stannis is lord of a rock and Renly sits at Storm’s End. He is fifteen years old and there is an eleven year-old boy standing before him. Renly has neither the time nor the inclination for courtly courtesies but this is the youngest son of Mace Tyrell and some manner of etiquette is expected.

The Tyrells of Highgarden are a high-handed bunch but they are wealthy and they are powerful. They might even be a match for the Lannisters. Renly’s castellan informs him that it is an honour. Renly is bored by this Baratheon notion of honour.

“Is it as much an honour as fostering my brother’s bastard?” asks Renly. “Come then. Let me take a look at you, Flowers.”

“I am no bastard, my lord,” says the boy, with great dignity. He is slight, filthy from the road and his hair tumbles about his ears in soft brown curls. Renly wonders if Mace Tyrell has sent his young daughter to squire for him instead.

“No, I suppose not.” Renly stands up. He is almost a man grown and, already, it is evident that he will match his brothers’ large frames. His shoulders are broad and his legs are long and he towers over the child in front of him “Let me see your hands.”

He takes the boy’s hands in his and turns them over. They are not so soft as he had expected. Perhaps this boy will not be entirely useless. Given the Tyrell stock - the hardiness of Garlan and, yes, even withered Willas - there is every chance that this boy will be a passable squire. It does rather look as though a stiff breeze would blow him over and Renly says as much before he strides from the hall.

As the doors are opened, he can hear the boy asking, “But he did not even ask my name.”

Renly smiles as Ser Cortnay replies, “He knows it, my little lord.”

Some hours later, Renly is in his rooms. He knows that he has scant days before he is expected to ride for King’s Landing. Robert will want to hear all about his attempts at diplomacy in Dorne. Renly grits his teeth as he lowers himself into the great copper bathtub. It is, perhaps, his favourite indulgence.

He will not be giving Robert an entirely accurate account of events in Dorne. He closes his eyes and rests his head back against soft towels. There were certain embarrassments during his visit. At first, he had not been sure but it became apparent that Arianne Martell had been attempting to seduce him. She was not subtle and he was not receptive. She was slightly older than him and very beautiful and, when she was rebuffed, she became unexpectedly clumsy.

On one night, when Renly was lingering in an alcove, looking out at the stars in the black Dornish night, he overheard Oberyn Martell speaking with Arianne. He was laughing.

“Do not be ashamed, my niece. It is not your fault that you lack what the little prince requires in a paramour.”

“And what is that, Uncle?”

It was dark but Renly knew that a wide smile that accompanied the crude word. The Red Viper was amused and Renly was ashamed. He wondered – he still wonders – whether Littlefinger advised that Renly be sent to Dorne for precisely this reason. Naturally, Renly had risen to the Red Viper’s challenge and discretion was never the better part of Oberyn’s valour.

Oberyn raised his voice. “Had I the time, I would show you how, but the little prince leaves on the morrow.”

Of course Oberyn knew that Renly had been within earshot, though it was only after the Red Viper and his niece continued down the corridor that Renly realised it.

He reaches for his wine and admires the goblet for a moment; golden and studded with emeralds. He takes a long swallow. Dornish women might not be so practiced at seduction as Dornish men but even Robert would be pleased by this acquisition of fine wine.

He is close to drifting off when there is a tentative knock on the door. The squire, young Loras Tyrell. Renly scarcely glances at him though he sees enough to learn that the boy has washed off the dirt from his journey from Highgarden and that he is dead on his feet.

“Go to bed,” says Renly in that way of his; it is an order but mildly spoken. “You have my permission to commence squiring in the morning.”

The boy has not learned to school his expressions yet. Renly half-wonders if he is indeed Olenna Tyrell’s grandson. The old woman never misses a trick and, from half way across a dim room, Renly can read every thought that fleets and flashes through the boy’s mind. “It is not a test, boy. Tonight, you may remain a Tyrell of Highgarden. With the rising of the sun, you will be the lowliest squire in Storm’s End. Make of it what you will.”

The boy lingers still.

“Go,” says Renly, his voice a little harsher.

The boy flees.

 

Perhaps it is a cruelty to bring the boy to King’s Landing, so soon after his arrival at Storm’s End, but it would be considered a slight to leave him behind. There is to be a tourney, in honour of Renly’s sixteenth name-day, and he will require his squire if he is to compete in the lists. Mace Tyrell will be in the capital and Renly rather looks forward to seeing the expression on his face when he sees his son in Baratheon gold and green.

“Tell me of Highgarden,” he says. Loras’ cob would normally be no match for the speed of Renly’s courser but their pace is slow today. It seems that all of Westeros travels to King’s Landing and that all of Westeros is taking the road from Storm’s End. Renly supposes that he should be flattered but he is not so foolish as to think the commons greatly care whose tourney it is. They care more for the blood and the glory and the games.

“It is beautiful,” the boy says, as if by rote. Renly snorts. Loras might as well have said that the Narrow Sea is damp.

“Do you miss it?”

The boy looks up at him sharply. “My brother Willas told me that I was to have an adventure and that I was to work hard and make Highgarden proud.”

Renly looked back at the boy, his expression very grave. “Then I hope you will find your adventure. What do you think of Storm’s End?”

“I’ve been there before.”

Renly raises his eyebrows. His tone is mocking. “Is it the less exciting for your previous acquaintance?”

“It was the tourney when Willas – “ The boy stops. He looks away. He is learning, already, to hide his feelings. If only it wasn’t so damnably obvious that he had something to hide.

Renly says no more on the subject. He can be compassionate, even if he does not understand this great affection between brothers. He supposes that Loras was one of the little boys fighting with sticks at the edge of the tourney ground, where the earth is still churned up, more than a year later. He wonders if Loras jousted against the straw knight.

“We should be in King’s Landing by nightfall.”

He rides on.

Renly has to sit through small council meetings, day after day. It seems that Robert is intent on making him earn his tourney. He tells them of his visit to Dorne and Littlefinger remarks that he must not have insulted anyone too greatly because the Prince of Dorne and the Red Viper are making their way to King’s Landing.

“Doran will take his seat at the small council, naturally,” says Littlefinger and he does not remark on the colour in Renly’s face though he does smile at him with that irritating, knowing smile. “But at least we have your efforts, and those of Jon Arryn, to thank for Dorne’s continued support of our king’s reign. We must hope that the Red Viper does not look to cripple another Tyrell in the lists. Shame your squire is too young to joust and Garlan is too wise.”

Renly rises. He has had enough of Martells and Tyrells. “Enough for today, gentlemen?”

Without waiting for a formal dismissal, he strides from the room and walks swiftly to his own chambers in the Red Keep.

“Where do you want your armour, my lord?” asks Loras.

“Damn it all, throw it in the Blackwater.”

Loras’ eyes widen and Renly throws up his hands. It is a credit to the boy that he doesn’t flinch. There is steel in this little rose.

“I only meant should I polish it here or will I have it moved to your pavilion? It’s three days till the tourney. I heard that the Kingslayer got a new suit of armour but I don’t think he’ll beat Ser Barristan Selmy.”

“You have not spoken so many words to me in all our vast acquaintance,” says Renly. He accepts the goblet of wine handed to him. Strong wine. He sips it slowly. He does not have Robert’s head for such drinks, though he does not have Stannis’ puritanical streak, either. Sometimes, though, wine is good for thinking and he has had a thought. “It is the tourney, isn’t it?” Loras says nothing.

“I see how it is,” says Renly and he smiles. The boy reddens. “Have we found your secret? Come then, let’s go to the tourney grounds and we can walk through them.” He looks at the boy with some satisfaction. Tourneys and knighthoods are fine dreams for any boy. Loras smiles brightly and all but runs to fetch his cloak.

Offhandedly, Renly says, “You may wear your Highgarden cloak, if you wish to show off your allegiance. I gather a great many Knights of the Reach have already arrived.”

Loras looks at him, uncertain, and his hand certainly falters but there is nothing but determination in his face when he casts Baratheon gold and green over his shoulders.

They walk to the tourney grounds together. Already, most of the pavilions have been erected and the unmistakeable stench of horse shit and wet straw and spilled ale.

“Breathe deeply,” Renly says. “This is the smell of nobility.”

Perhaps, some day, Loras will come to understand the meaning of Renly’s wry smiles. Today, he looks puzzled. As they walk, Renly asks Loras dozens of questions about sigils and banners and houses and, to his credit, Loras gets very few of them wrong. There is no shame in failing to recognise some houses of the north. Occasionally, some of the noble houses make their way south for tourneys but the Stark banner hasn’t been seen south of the Neck for many years.

Renly can barely recall Eddard Stark’s appearance but, according to Littlefinger’s reports, he busies himself in the north, getting children on his wife.

Renly doubts that he will be graced with the presence of the Warden of the North on this occasion. He points at a banner and his voice is harsh, “That one?”

Loras’ voice is rather strained, too. “Too easy, my lord. That is the sunspear of Martell.” There is a moment’s pause. “Is the Red Viper to ride?”

“Is my brother over-fond of whoring?” Renly scowls and looks down at Loras. The boy is pale and his hands are fists, white-knuckled by his side.

“Don’t make me separate you, now,” Renly says lightly. “It was an ac-“

“An accident, yes, I know,” says Loras in a rush. “But if your brother was crippled, wouldn’t you be angry?”

Renly has to think about that. He flashes a grin at Loras. “Which brother?”

Loras looks up at him, unblinking. Yes, his family loyalty is disconcerting. Renly laughs.

“We shall leave my armour in my rooms until the morning of the tourney,” he says. He turns away from the Martell pavilion. He is in no mood to bandy witticisms with Oberyn and he is not entirely convinced that Loras will not attempt to exact retribution for Willas’ injuries.

Renly rests his hand on Loras’ shoulders. “How is your brother?”

“He is not to travel yet,” says Loras. He speaks quietly and Renly is amused by the boy’s mutinous expression. “My mother and father have come with Margaery, though, and Garlan may enter the archery.”

“Well, that is good news.”

“How so, my lord?”

“Why, you will not have conflicting loyalties when I ride in the lists and I shall not feel bad for unhorsing a Tyrell.”

The boy pulls himself up to his full height. It is endearing. “To unhorse a Tyrell, you need a great deal of skill and even more than that - you need luck.”

Renly’s responds with all due gravity. “I shall bear that in mind.”

 

Renly rides well. He unhorses a Redwyne and a minor Lannister (although, as the Lannisters have it, there are no unimportant Lannisters). His coup of the day is unhorsing Lord Tremond Gargalen and Loras is flushed with excitement when Renly returns to the pavilion.

“You are to ride against the Kingslayer next,” says Loras.

“I shall not best him,” says Renly.

Loras looks appalled.

“Close your mouth, Loras. You shall catch flies and the gods know where those flies have been.” Renly sets his helm on the table. “You think me a failure before I have even ridden?”

Loras’ mouth moves soundlessly. “No,” he says, at last, “You think yourself a failure.”

“I have never beaten the Kingslayer though nothing would please me more than to watch him land arse-first on the ground.” Renly thinks that the only sight sweeter would be the expression on the Queen’s face.

“If you do not unhorse him, I will,” says Loras.

Renly smiles and raises his hand to cup the boy’s cheek. “Not today.”

Now Loras matches his smile, too knowing and too bloodthirsty for a child. “Not today,” he says but he is a child of Highgarden and all roses have thorns

(Oh, not today but soon.)


	2. Stags and Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two years later, Loras is well on his way to becoming the Knight of Flowers.

“He is too young to enter the lists, Lord Renly, to say nothing of the melee.”

“You try telling him that,” says Renly, smiling broadly. It is the tourney for his eighteenth name-day and Robert says that this will be the last or else he will cripple the realm. It is because his sons will soon require tourneys and Renly knows that Lannister pride will rule the day. He does not greatly care, for all that he can hear Tywin Lannister’s words. The Baratheons are the ruling family but, by the gods, they are not nearly as proud as the Lannisters. Perhaps they should be. Baratheon pride is always tempered by something ugly; a certain inflexibility that is bullishness in Robert and intractability in Stannis. Renly does not look too closely at his own stubbornness. It entertains him to think on Loras’ obstinacy, though.

Ser Cortnay looks at Renly, long-suffering but smiling. “I have long since learned the folly in attempting to speak sense to thirteen year-old lords of Storm’s End.”

“He is a Lord of the Reach,” says Renly, “or he will be.”

Ser Cortnay is too courteous to shrug or roll his eyes. “He is a child of the Stormlands now, my lord.”

Renly does not quite agree but there is some seed of truth here. There is no wind strong enough to remove that rose’s head, though the sword of a Payne or the lance of a damnable Clegane might see to the job instead.

“And if he does well, you will lose your squire.”

Renly looks down at Penrose. He has been looking down at his castellan for two years, now. He has likely stopped growing but his shoulders and chest are broader and it pleases him that he will have to have new armour crafted unless there is a man who might invent a breastplate expander. “Perhaps.”

“My lord, if that squire of yours performs even adequately, it will fall on you to knight him and a knight will squire for no one, not even a king.”

Renly is not always courteous. He shrugs. “Be that as it may, Penrose, I am no king and I cannot forbid him from entering.”

They both know the fallacy in his words. It is perfectly within Renly’s rights to keep Loras at his beck and call but he cannot. The boy is the best of the squires and, in practice, he has unhorsed rather too many of the Knights of the Stormlands for Renly’s liking. Loras is ready to be a knight.

They go to the lists to watch the squires practise and Renly thinks that they are afraid to face Loras. Even the biggest amongst them are tentative against this child of Highgarden. Renly can see it in the unease of their horses, pussyfooting about and powerless in the face of Loras’ headlong, headstrong charge. When Lord Grandison’s youngest has his ribs broken, there is outcry and Renly calls a halt to the day’s practice.

“You should be grateful that your son still breathes,” Renly says. “Perhaps he should learn to joust against the straw knight again. He shall find it less prickly than my squire. I can vouch for that much at least!” He laughs. “Tell him not to be too disheartened; there is honour in falling to one whose name will be known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.”

He leaves the lists and returns to the castle with Ser Cortnay so that they might make the last of their plans before Renly and his retinue leave for King’s Landing.

Later, Loras comes to Renly’s rooms to prepare his lord for sleep. A fresh bruise blooms on his cheek.

Renly frowns. “What happened?”

“The hilt of Lyonel Bolling’s sword. It’s only a scratch. We were preparing for the melee-“

“I commanded that practice to halt for the day,” says Renly sharply. “You disobeyed my order?”

Loras’ expression is mutinous. He looks up at Renly from under lowered eyelashes. He, too, has grown but he is still a head and a half shorter than Renly and as slender as a whippet. He is wound up tightly, like one of the cunning toys Davos Seaworth brought to Storm’s End as a gift for Renly, many years ago. A simple tap and he might run riot. Renly is tempted. “I am sorry, Lord Renly,” Loras says. He is not subdued though his voice is muted.

“You are not in the least bit sorry, Loras. What if you had been hurt?” He gestures at Loras’ face. “What if you had lost an eye? Damned difficult to joust with one eye, whether you’re a Lord of the Stormlands or a Knight of the Reach.”

“Cannot a man be both?”

Renly is not appeased. “A man can be neither if he disregards his lord’s orders. What if you had injured Bolling so that he could not compete at the tourney? What then?”

“I should have recompensed his family for any possible winnings, Lord Renly.”

Renly lets out a slow breath. He places his hands on his hips and does his utmost not to smile. “You are incorrigible.”

“I am as my lord intended.”

Renly resists the urge to beat his own head off the tapestry-hung wall. The nearest tapestry depicts some scene from some Baratheon’s marriage bed and is in the worst possible taste. It has hung in these rooms for hundreds of years and every generation that has slept in these rooms has produced a new generation and so on and so forth. The same expectation lies on the shoulders of the current Lord of Storm’s End and Renly supposes that a little superstition can do no harm.

He looks at Loras, openly. He thinks of it as a military inspection. The boy (no, not a boy) stands upright in the centre of this room, from which the might of the Baratheons has sprung. He looks ahead, gaze unwavering. Renly circles him.

“I cannot tell what you are thinking,” he says. He marvels. The green boy who arrived two years ago, with all his attendant tells, is nowhere to be seen.

“You are missing nothing, Lord Renly.” Loras’ face is impassive.

Renly grins. He lifts his hand and touches the boy’s cheek, as he has done so many times. His thumb presses on the bruise but Loras does not flinch. “Such steel,” murmurs Renly. “I should not bet against you in the lists.”

At last, Loras smiles. “Did you mean what you said?”

Renly frowns. “I say a great deal, Loras, and I tend to mean it.”

“To Lord Grandison” Loras blushes; he is not so vain as Renly, as to believe every good thing said about him. "About me."

“Of course. It seems that you will not be my squire for ever though I expect any squire of mine to be renowned.”

Loras’ expression clouds over briefly. “There would be no shame in remaining your squire, Lord Renly.”

Again, Renly can only laugh and if his breath catches for a moment, it is simply because he never thought to have so ardent a squire. Loras’ eyes are alarmingly wide and earnest but Renly will not do him the dishonour of looking away.

“And what should we do, Loras? Travel the kingdoms as hedge knights?”

“I would, Lord Renly.”

Renly does not doubt it. He rests his hand on Loras’ shoulder. “Well, let us attend to our duties in King’s Landing before we make any such plans.”

King’s Landing is as it always is: a catastrophe of colour and excess. It is as it always is but more so. Robert is stouter – a lesson to Renly on the virtues of moderation – and Cersei is more beautiful and as enticing as an icicle.

“You have grown,” says Robert. He claps Renly on the shoulder as though it is some achievement to be taller than one was a year ago and guffaws with delight at his brother’s sturdiness. “Thanks the gods!” cries the king. He does hark on, thinks Renly. “There was a time when I thought you might be another Stannis come to torment me.”

“Shall I grow a beard?” asks Renly. He raises his hand to touch his hair, long enough now to reach his shoulders. “Or have my hair cropped short? I fear I could only be a poor copy of our dear brother.”

“There is little fear of you being any copy at all,” says Cersei. Her smile is warm and unsettling (a woman’s smile). “You are far too similar to my husband.”

“Your Grace,” says Renly. “You are too kind.”

“On the morrow, we shall hunt,” says Robert, bloodthirsty as ever. (They are not so similar as all that.)

“What of the small council?”

“What of it, boy? Stannis and Jon Arryn will put the kingdoms to rights and we’ll find a boar for the table on your name-day.”

Renly can only smile. In truth, he would prefer to sit on the small council because there would be chance of intelligent conversation, at least. Renly does not particularly trust either Littlefinger or Varys but they are entertaining and manipulative to a fault and Renly enjoys the challenge of attempting to unravel their schemes.

The hunt is tedious and Renly wishes that he had brought Loras with him. On the night before he departed, he felt generous and told Loras to spend time with his family. The Tyrells are in King’s Landing and if Renly knows anything about Loras after all this time, it is that he misses his sister during their long separations.

Now, of course, trampling through the undergrowth, Renly is peevish because he misses Loras. He tells himself that it is because Loras enjoys hunting. No one enjoys hunting as much as Robert, though Jaime Lannister takes peculiar pleasure in congratulating Robert on skewering a stag.

“You have a preference for venison, Kingslayer?” asks Renly.

Lannister smiles. “My father has a particular method for skinning the deer,” he says, “to get the most out of the beast. Surely you appreciate the value of fine leather and meat, Lord Renly,”

Renly wonders if it is improper use of the Kingsguard to command that Lannister skin the King’s quarry though he doubts that it would prove any point but that of the Kingslayer.

He is only too happy when Robert declares the hunt a success. They return to King’s Landing suitably bloodied and Renly goes straight to his rooms in the Red Keep where, by some stroke of prescience, Loras is drawing a bath for him.

“We received word of your return,” says Loras and this explanation does not diminish Renly’s delight as he undresses and sinks into the hot, perfumed water.

“How does your sister fare?” asks Renly.

“She sends her thanks for your generosity,” says Loras. “Shall I shave you, my lord?”

Renly raises his hand to his cheek and rubs. Four days of growth. Again, he contemplates the virtue of growing a beard. “Perhaps,” he says, at last. “At this rate, I shall be indistinguishable from my eldest brother and that would not do at all.”

“You are nothing like him,” says Loras, with all the lofty conviction of youth.

“I fear you are alone in that opinion. Even the Queen sees a certain similarity.”

“She is wrong.”

Renly is amused by Loras’ vehemence. “Do not tell her that; Lannisters do not take contradiction well.”

“Perhaps defeating her brother in the lists might make the point more eloquent.”

Loras does not unhorse the Kingslayer. They meet in the last four and all the commons are entirely enthralled by the young squire from Highgarden. Their good will is not enough to ensure his victory and he is thrown from his saddle forcefully. He lands gracelessly and injures his shoulder.

Renly watches from the royal pavilion. He fell in the second round to Barristan the Bold and he is entirely untroubled by it. Robert declares that it was due to ill-fitting armour and Renly has already been measured for his new armour. It is a lavish gift from his brother.

When Loras falls, Renly is on his feet in an instant. He only realizes how dry his mouth has become when Loras gets to his feet, shrugging off any assistance. Renly begs his leave of the King and Queen and hurries to his own pavilion. Loras is already there, scowling and pale.

“Stand still before you hurt yourself.” Renly’s voice is harsh but it does not quiver. His hands are steady as he removes Loras’ armour, piece by piece. “I’ll have the Grand Maester look at that shoulder.”

“I am sure that he has better things with which to concern himself,” says Loras stiffly. “Lord Renly, _please_.”

Renly looks up from unbuckling Loras’ chestplate, startled by the note of anguish in Loras’ voice. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, it’s just that-“

“Oh.” Renly understands. He raises his hand and crooks his finger under Loras’ chin, forcing him to look Renly in the eyes. “If I cannot squire for a friend, then the realm is in poor shape.” (Of course it would be a matter for the realm; Renly cannot paint his world in anything other than broad brush-strokes.)

Loras bites his lip and then he nods.

“Good,” says Renly, unsure of why he should feel relieved. “I shall have the Grand Maester see to you and then you must come to the closing ceremony.” Loras is about to demure but Renly is stern in his insistence.

The final joust is between the Kingslayer and Barristan Selmy. Robert is pleased because it confirms the superiority of his Kingsguard. The prizes are duly bestowed on the worthy winners. One of Lord Hoster Tully’s bannermen claims the archery prize and the melee was won by a large, brutish hedge knight from the North.

Once Jaime Lannister has been presented with his prize money, Renly rises. Loras stands behind him.

“Your Grace,” says Renly, his voice ringing over the cheers of the commons. “I present Loras Tyrell, of Highgarden, who fought admirably in the melee and who was unhorsed by none less than today’s champion.”

Robert grins and, in that instant, whether they own it or not, the two brothers are alike and in accord. Loras’ eyes are wide and he looks puzzled even as he kneels before Robert as directed. It is only when he looks towards Renly, that he seems to understand.

“Arise, Ser Loras Tyrell.”

The commons cheer even more raucously than they did for Jaime Lannister. This alone would please Renly but the pride on Loras’ face is too, too distracting. Loras comes to stand before Renly and he places his hands on Loras’ shoulders and kisses him on both cheeks. Loras’ cheek is still bruised from his scuffle in Storm’s End but he does not so much as wince at the press of Renly’s lips.

“Ser Cortnay Penrose told me that I would likely lose my squire today,” says Renly, without a hint of reproach in his tone. “It is a poor name-day present indeed.” Loras is flushed and, though his arm is in a sling, he holds himself as a knight. “And yet is seems only yesterday that you were standing before me in my halls, admonishing me for calling you ‘Flowers’.” He sighs dramatically. “Ah, you’re the Knight of Flowers now, I suppose, and there is naught I can do to undo it.” He adds, rather more seriously, “Nor would I though I must now relinquish you to Highgarden once more.”

Later, at the feast, where Jaime Lannister and all Robert’s court enjoy roasted venison and an abundance of other meats and vegetables, Renly watches the Tyrells.

Margaery is a pretty girl and her similarity to Loras is striking but she is not so vibrant or vital as her brother. Willas has traveled to King’s Landing and he watches with evident amusement as Garlan and Loras scuffle and laugh.

Renly has always thought – or he has been taught – that familiarity within a family is altogether unseemly but no highborn lord or lady could possibly accuse the Tyrells of vulgarity. The Queen of Thorns oversees her family with peremptory pride. She catches Renly’s gaze and holds and he looks away first.

As the feast draws to its inevitably rowdy conclusion, Renly walks over to the Tyrells. The Queen has already departed, and her children, too. There is not a Lannister in sight, which is just as well, given Robert’s current behaviour towards any maid within reach.

“I must thank you, Lord Tyrell, for providing me with such a squire.”

Mace Tyrell gets to his feet, a little unsteadily. The wine has been strong this evening, and still flows freely. “My thanks to you, Lord Renly. We gave you our youngest son and you have returned to us the youngest knight in the seven kingdoms.”

“He is a credit to his family,” says Lady Olenna.

“That is undeniable,” says Renly, determined not to falter under her unwavering stare.

“Lord Renly,” says Lady Tyrell. “Would you do us the honour of visiting us in Highgarden? Perhaps you might return with us when we leave King’s Landing two days from now?”

“Oh ,yes,” says Margaery, looking up from her dolls, who are as pristine as she is. “Loras has told us ever so much about you.”

Renly arches an eyebrow and looks at Loras. He is of a mind to decline the invitation; he does not think it will do him any good to postpone his return to Storm’s End, which seems a bleaker prospect than ever before.

“I should be delighted, Lady Tyrell,” he says, surprising himself. “If nothing else, I will have the opportunity to address whatever wild claims your son has made about me.”

“I have spoken nothing but the truth, Lord Renly,” says Loras. He looks at Renly and his gazes holds a certain challenge. He is a knight, after all, and his word is his bond.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Rufus Wainwright's 'The Rebel Prince'  
> To be continued.


End file.
